‘Can’t get back?’
‘Not possibly.’
Duty, said the voice, is paramount. No need, I presume, to point that out? Standing in the unlit hall, she saw her own image glide out before her into the future in multiple projection: a far-flung monotonously repeated line of her, fixed in a puppet’s pathos and ignominy, over and over again lifting the instrument to her ear to receive similar announcements.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Well, I’ve got to turn the horse.’
‘Turn the what?’
‘Turn the horse. Gerald’s horse—Conker.’
‘Why must Conker be turned?’
‘He’s got colic. The vet. says there’s a hundred to one chance for him if he’s turned every four hours.’
‘Couldn’t Gerald turn him?’
‘Single-handed?’ inquired the voice, sick of foolishness. ‘He’s lying down. It takes four to turn him. We’ve just done it—me, Gerald, Oliver and Roger Wickham—the chap who’s staying. Gerald proposes to set his alarm clock for two a.m. and six, and wake me, and honestly it only means ten minutes out of bed, and I’ll sleep like a top in between.’
‘Has your hostess been consulted?’
‘Of course. There’s a bed for me; and as a matter of fact she said she’d be frightfully grateful for my help, because otherwise Mr. Carmichael will have to be roused up, and she’s not awfully keen to suggest it to him. But she said I must ask you first if you O.K.d it.’
‘That’s all right. Only swear you won’t go out with no clothes on.’
‘I swear.’ Immediately his voice relaxed, eager, filial obedience itself. ‘As a matter of fact, I shan’t bother to undress at all.’
‘I hope Conker pulls through.’
‘Thanks awfully. Look, don’t worry about the show. We’re getting on fine with everything. We’ve roughed out our own thing and we’ll polish it off in no time now. Jane and Meg’s thing is coming along fine. They’re nearly word perfect already: we put them through their parts this afternoon. Roger’s been doing his imitations. They’re wizard. He and Gerald and Oliver are going to put on an impromptu turn, with him at the piano. That can run to absolutely any length, so you needn’t worry about the programme being too short.’
‘I don’t worry about that. I only worry about there being no programme at all. Only five days, you know.’
‘Oh, it’ll work out O.K. Roger knows a chap who plays the accordion who might consent to come at a pinch. Daly—he’s in the eleven. And Mrs. Carmichael’s on the track of a conjurer, though I can’t myself see it’s necessary. And then there’s your thing. How’ve you been getting on?’
‘I haven’t learnt my part yet. I’ve been doing the ironing.’
‘Oh, well, you can have a go at it in bed.’
‘Has Mrs. Carmichael learnt her part?’
‘Not yet. She’s having rather bad luck with the animals, as a matter of fact. Not only Conker. Bertha’s been giving milk the wrong colour all day.’
‘What colour has it been?’
‘Well, Mrs. Wilfer, that’s her new cook who came yesterday, says it’s green and she won’t give it to her baby any more. She says it’s upset it. So the vet.’s taken away a sample to test. Mr. Carmichael says it’s all rot, and we think so too, but Mrs. Carmichael says the more she stares at it the more it seems to take on a sort of greenish tinge; and what with that and the house being full she can’t concentrate on her part. She told me to give you her love and say she could rehearse with you tomorrow morning.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got to bicycle to Redbury and hunt for Jane’s trunk. Give her my love and say could she manage the afternoon.’
‘I doubt if she can from what she said, but I’ll ask. Well, good-night.’
‘Night night. See you for breakfast, I suppose. Have a good time.’
‘Rather. Good-night.’
The moment she had rung up, Jane’s voice arose on a full horn-like note from a point above the ceiling.
‘Who was that?’
‘Why aren’t you asleep? It was John. He’s staying the night at the Carmichaels.’
‘Why is he?’
She yelled up the stairs, explaining why.
‘Oh, can’t I help turn him, too? Ring up again and ask. Is Meg going to?’
‘I’m sure Meg’s asleep hours ago.’
‘I bet she’s not. I bet she isn’t even in bed yet. She told me Gerald and Oliver always beg for her to stay up and she’s allowed. She never goes to bed till twelve, she said so. Ring up and ask if I can sleep on the sofa in her room. I could get dressed in five minutes and run along the lane. It’s moonlight.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘John has all the excitements. I’m much more fond of horses than him.’
‘Go to sleep, Jane.’
‘Do you think Conker’ll die?’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m afraid he might.’
‘You don’t sound as if you cared. Poor Conker!’
Silence.
‘If he dies, how will they bury him?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought.’
‘Do horses have graveyards?’
‘No, they don’t have graveyards.’
Silence. She sank into the arm-chair, took up a tenuous, worn, paper-bound volume and began to study it. A note in Aunt Cicely’s slapdash hand fell out of the pages.
Dearest M.,
Your dear M. told me last night on the phone of your difficulties re suitable sketches for your S. the S. Week, and it struck me the encl. found last week in turning out old papers for salvage might help you out??? I remember Aunt G. and I did it many years ago—before we were married, in fact!!!—to raise money for the new organ—and it caused roars of laughter!! Of course the villages are so much more go-ahead nowadays, with all this crooning, etc. (Mrs. H.’s Group is getting up N. Coward for the Comforts Fund in May—aiming TOO high, I think!!??!!) but sometimes these old-fashioned things come up unexp. fresh again—in fact curiously enough Lady P. was telling me y’day her W.I. did it last Xmas and it was considered most amusing, and with your cleverness you could easily bring it up to date—changing bonnets to toques or perhaps better still simply hats?? (Lady P. did this) etc. etc. There is the little difficulty of Miss Brown stating her age as 25??—not that you look much more than that dear and in any case I ALWAYS took it this was MEANT to raise a laugh. Best of luck dear for the great week. Try not to wear yourself out. If people seem willing they are apt to get put upon at these times and I know what you are. Our own target was £500 and we raised £974!!!!—thanks to Sir W.
—Your loving Aunt C.
You must do it. You can and you will. Only fifteen minutes out of a lifetime, and you’ll feel so happy afterwards. Think what women are doing nowadays … If it went down with Lady P.’s W.I., why shouldn’t it go down here? They’re not so very critical … ? Forget yourself—that’s the thing—clown away for all you’re worth, make the most of the business, particularly bringing on the bath. Failing a hip-bath, must make do with the bigger zinc egg-bucket, but of course not so humorous. Must not dry up—that’s the chief thing. If you’re word perfect you get the confidence to go for the comedy … Will Mrs. Carmichael not dry up … ?
Once more the horn sounded from above, firm, melancholic.
‘Come up.’
She went up. Invisible, Jane stirred in her bed.
‘I saw a shop in Redbury. It said, “Horse meat. Not for human consumption.” What does that mean?’
‘It means for animals—dogs and cats.’
‘I see. Might a kind of horse like Conker go there?’
‘No, I promise you.’
‘Good. I wish there wasn’t any meat in the world. Meat, meat, nothing but meat.’
‘Not much nowadays.’
‘There oughtn’t to be one single scrap. Oh, it’s beastly! How do we know sheep and calves and all that don’t want to have their lives as much as we do?’
‘Who always asks if it can’t be stew for lunch?’
‘It’s not my favourite. It never was. I can’t stand such a world.’ She thrashed about between the sheets.
‘Oh, darling, don’t let’s start that again. I can’t do anything about it.’
The silence swelled with immensities of moral conflict and indictment. She stood, accused, by the bed in the dark, and heard the rhythmical throat of night begin to throb and croon again. Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb. Burn, burn, burn, burn. Down, down, down, down. Fuller, fuller, fainter, fainter. A strong force of our aircraft passing overhead. Impersonally exulting and lamenting, deadly mild, soothing in its husky reiterated burden as a familiar lullaby. Four years safe beneath this portion of the unimpartial sky, Jane, who had called out on the first night of war: ‘Do they make special small bombs for children?’ heard it now without listening; feared only the unpropitiated presence of the night wind knocking and writhing in the curtain.
‘Think of sleepy things.’
She was aware of Jane’s eyes closing in instant automatic response.
‘Say them.’
She said them.
‘Yes, and what else?’
‘Think of all the lovely things to look forward to.’
‘What are they?’
‘The theatricals. Acting for the first time with the big ones and going to Mrs. Carmichael’s party afterwards. Staying up till midnight, I should think. Daphne coming on Wednesday to stay.’
‘I shall think about Roger. Honestly, Mummy, he’s the wittiest boy I’ve ever met. Oh, he’s wonderful! He keeps such a grave face, and all the time he’s saying funny things. He catches me out with them, because they’re witty. Oh, he makes me and Meg laugh so! Meg understands them, because she’s got a sense of humour. I wish I had. Do you think I shall ever get one? How can I?’
‘Perhaps you’ll grow one. People often do after they’re ten.’
‘John says I never shall. Roger’s going to paint our portraits, Meg and me together. Honestly, he’s a simply wonderful painter. But what am I to wear? I cannot be painted in my dirty uniform. I got a lot more spots on it to-day. John says it makes my face the colour of a cooked mushroom. What am I to do?’
‘I can’t think. I’m just praying your trunk will turn up to-morrow.’
‘God, God, I hope so!’
‘I’m going to the station directly after breakfast. It’s no use keeping on telephoning all over the place. I believe it might be sitting at the station all the time, in a siding or something, with the label torn off.’
The school trunk, sent in advance at the end of the term, had failed to arrive. For ten days Jane, in alternating moods of protest, resignation, complacence or mere indifference, had bicycled, climbed, ridden Meg’s pony, gone out to tea, clad in the Sunday uniform frock, once palest hospital grey, in which she had been despatched from school.
‘Honestly, I cannot wear it one day longer. I’m sick and tired of the filth of it. It doesn’t suit me, anyway. John’s always tweaking it and saying: “What ho! for a public schoolgirl,” and things like that. I’m sure Roger hates it … though he says grey’s one of his favourite colours.’
‘If I don’t have any luck to-morrow, I’ll ask Mrs. Carmichael if she could possibly lend you something of Meg’s.’
‘Meg’s things are all too tight. Oh dear! Aren’t the Carmichaels lucky to have Roger staying?’
‘Extremely lucky.’
‘Which do you like the best: Gerald, Oliver or Roger?’
‘I like them all.’
‘All exactly the same? I did like Oliver best … And Gerald’s very nice … But I’m not so sure now.’ She faintly groaned.
‘I believe you’ll be asleep in exactly one minute. Goodnight, pet.’ Their faces bumped in the dark. Jane’s cool arms clasped her neck in a stranglehold, then fell away.
‘Oh, you beauty! Stand in the window and let me see you by moonlight.’
‘Nonsensical creature. Close your eyes.’
‘You know that new leaf I turned over on Easter Day?’
‘Yes. How’s it getting on?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
She racked her brains.
‘I supposed you never noticed,’ said Jane, invisibly shrugging.
‘What?’
‘Only I dug a quarter of the bed by the hen-house for you with the big fork: I could manage it.’
‘Do you mean it was you?’ she exclaimed, disingenuous. ‘I noticed it to-night when I went to shut up the hens. I thought Old Arthur must have started on it for the potatoes.’
‘I sincerely trust I keep it up. I’ll do some more tomorrow; at least, if I have time. It depends how long Roger wants me for. By the way, my stockings have got two new holes. Could you possibly darn them to-night?’
She went downstairs, brought her sewing basket to the fire, sat down and began to darn. Began once more to think about the trunk. Lost. Stolen. Strayed. Strayed. Stolen. Lost. The needle pointed in—blank—out—blank—drawing after it the long grey strand of frustration.
She finished the stocking and started on John’s socks. The bellow of glider-towing Whitleys practising night landings half a mile away reverberated round the roof. Just after midnight she finished the last of the socks, extinguished the light, and looked out of the window. The released gliders were tipping, sliding steep down the lustrous sky, one after another: giant pendants set with white, rose and emerald brilliants. Through the roar another sound began to wind and waver: singing. It came from the direction of the Carmichaels’: the Eton Boating Song flung without inhibition on the night by a chorus of unmusical and partially immature male voices. It seemed to be going up the lane towards the village.
John turned up about nine o’clock next morning, unusually fresh and clear-eyed. He had had, he said, an excellent night.
‘We thought we might as well stay up till the two o’clock turning,’ he said. ‘Then we went to bed. Gerald set his alarm for six, but he went out to look at Conker before waking us, and it was just as he thought. So he didn’t wake us.’
‘Why not?’ said Jane.
‘Conker had croaked,’ said John, attacking porridge.
‘Croaked?’
‘Dead.’
Jane stopped in the act of mastication. Her throat closed, slowly her face grew bursting, darkly red.
‘Oh, well,’ said John, ‘he was twenty-five at least.’
Jane swallowed with an effort.
‘What are they going to do with him?’ she said, low.
‘They’ve rung up the kennels,’ said John off-hand.
‘The what?’
‘What was that caterwauling about midnight last night?’ she interposed swiftly, grimacing at him over Jane’s bowed head. ‘It sounded like the Eton Boating Song rendered by maniacs. Could it have been an hallucination?’
‘No,’ said John, faintly grinning. ‘It was us. We got appallingly hungry working so late, and the larder got pretty well bare, so we had to buzz up to Mr. MacBean for more dough cakes. We stayed around in the bakehouse for a bit and gave him a hand.’
‘Was he pleased to see you?’
‘Rather. Why not? It must be pretty boring alone there at night. We helped him shove the loaves into the oven.’ She saw them bursting at dead of night into the warm, bright aromatic bakehouse, their idle elastic limbs at large among the materials and gear of production, their brilliant tumbling locks and smooth wax-mask faces revolving in light-hearted irresponsibility around the bald, intellectual dome, the spectacled transparent face moulded in hollows and lines of sensibility, humour and exhaustion, the swiftly kneading hands of dear Mr. MacBean. He delivered the milk be
fore breakfast, served all day in the store, teasing and wisecracking with his customers, made bread each night into the small hours, and only snapped in gusts of blind scorching rage when it came to the stock-taking or the forms, or a bother with the booking. ‘They’re some smart lads,’ he would say with a chuckle and shake of his head, when she apologised for the perpetual raids on the dough cakes. ‘That age, you got a wolf in your stomach.’
John pushed away his porridge and started to hack at the loaf.
‘Go slow with the marmalade. That’s the last of it; and another week till the new period.’
‘Oh, well … It’s no use screwing out these wretched snips and scraps. It’s simply training us to have mean natures. By the time we’re grown up we’ll be crawling round with paper bags picking up crumbs and cheese parings and tea leaves off the floors. How would you like that?’ He cut a thick crooked slice, adding: ‘I’m not awfully hungry as a matter of fact. I had a whacking breakfast at the Carmichaels’.’
‘What did you have?’ said Jane, sharp.
The telephone bell rang.
‘I’ll answer it,’ said John, bounding towards it. ‘Sure to be Gerald or Oliver about the footlights.’
He took up the receiver, said ‘Hallo, yes,’ then, ‘Hold on please. What name shall I say?’
Pause.
‘Who?’
Pause.
‘Who?’ He threw down the receiver, disgusted. ‘For you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘God knows. Some lunatic.’
She took up the receiver and said, ‘Hallo.’
A rough voice trumpeted out: ‘’Morning, Mrs. Ritchie. The Vicar here.’
‘Oh, Mr. Jebb! Good-morning. Do forgive my boy. He didn’t seem to recognise the word vicar. He’s not been very well brought up.’
Harsh nasal giggles rasped her ear.
‘That’s all right, Mrs. Ritchie. No offence meant, none taken. If you will send your boy to Eton, what can you expect? Hach! Hach! Hach! No offence meant. He seems a decent sort of lad on the whole. But I say, though!—beastly lot they’re turning out everywhere to-day—public schools and all. Damned impudent swearing young brutes. All smoking like chimneys. Girls just as bad. If not worse. Vile lot. It’s all the fault of the parents. What goes on in the homes nowadays? Nothing but beastly bad language—that’s all they hear. What can you expect? It’s a filthy outlook. I say, look here, there’s another damned nuisance coming on us. Book drive in June, or some such rot. Who ever heard of a book drive? Heard of a whist drive, never heard of a book drive. Suppose these damned official brutes can’t find anything better to do than pester us with their tomfoolery. We can’t call our souls our own. Personally speaking, can’t see we’d be any worse off under the Nazis. I say, I’d be much obliged if you’d come on the committee. You know what’s what, I take it, in these matters.’
The Gipsy's Baby Page 11
